Blog

People think if you’re a professional footballer, you’re rich. That you drive a Range Rover, wear designer clothes, and spend your days doing drills on pristine pitches before jetting off to Ibiza during the break. That’s true—for maybe 1% of us. The rest? We play in the shadows.

I’m a centre-back for a club you’ve probably never watched unless you’re local. We play in League One. Our games are broadcast on dodgy streams and rarely make the papers unless there’s a brawl or a big FA Cup upset. I’m not complaining—I’m lucky to be doing what I love. But it’s far from glamorous.

My morning starts with porridge, not paparazzi. We train in rain, wind, and on pitches so rough you’d think they were public parks. Some days, we share our training ground with youth teams or local community sessions. Our physio is a magician with tape and ibuprofen. And when we travel for away games, we do it in cramped coaches, eating soggy pasta from plastic containers.

The money? It’s okay. Better than minimum wage, but not enough to retire on. You budget carefully, and if you’re smart, you put something away or do your coaching badges on the side. I know players who work part-time jobs in the off-season. One lad from my old team now runs a plumbing business on the side. That’s the reality.

We still feel the pressure. Maybe more, because every game matters—not just for the table, but for the contract renewal, for the scouts in the stands, for the chance to move up. You’re constantly aware that there are kids coming up through the academy, and they’re younger, faster, cheaper.

Still, there’s something pure about it. No egos. No entourages. Just lads who love the game and play because it’s in their blood. We know each other’s stories. We know who’s struggling with family stuff, who’s fighting through injury, who’s been dropped and still shows up with a good attitude.

The crowds may be smaller, but they’re loyal. When you see a 12-year-old in your shirt in the stands, shouting your name, it hits differently. You don’t play for fame. You play for that.

I’m not a star. I’m a footballer. And while I might not make the headlines, I give everything I have every Saturday. And for now, that’s more than enough.

Most kids dream of playing in the Premier League. I was one of them. I grew up kicking a ball against a wall, pretending to be Gerrard or Rooney, thinking one day I’d hear my name chanted by thousands. And now? I do play football professionally—in the second division. But no one chants my name. Not really.

You won’t know who I am. That’s the point. I’m one of the hundreds of lads grinding it out below the glitz and glamour of the top tier. We travel on buses, not private jets. We play on pitches that sometimes feel more like farmland than stadiums. We get a few thousand in the stands, if we’re lucky. And when it rains—which is often—it’s cold, wet, and no one cares that your hamstring is tight or your personal life is falling apart.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m lucky. I get paid to play the game I love. But it’s a job, not a fantasy. Contracts aren’t guaranteed. One injury, one poor season, and you’re out. You hear stories—mates who were released at 22 and now work in call centers. Some who can’t even watch football on telly anymore. It hurts too much.

The pressure’s constant. You’re always playing for the next deal, the next contract, the next manager’s approval. Media doesn’t care unless you screw up. Fans love you when you score, and slaughter you when you don’t. And the pay? It’s decent—but it’s not what people think. Outside the Premier League, you’re not buying Bentleys. You’re saving, praying your knees hold up until 35.

Mentally, it’s brutal. You’re expected to be tough, focused, and loyal to the club—even when the club isn’t loyal to you. You miss weddings, birthdays, funerals. You live out of bags, eat at service stations, and spend your nights in budget hotels before early kickoffs.

But still—when you walk onto that pitch, and the whistle blows, and the ball’s at your feet—you remember why you started. For those ninety minutes, it all fades. It’s just football again.

I don’t know where I’ll be in five years. Maybe still playing. Maybe not. But I’ll say this: there’s a whole world of footballers you never see on TV. We play for pride, for the team, for the game. We don’t get the headlines—but we keep the sport alive.

We’re the other side of football. And we’re still fighting for every minute.